


Darling

by Anonymous



Category: Real Person Fiction, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Blood, Blood and Injury, Bonding, Codenames, Descriptive Violence, Experienced Mark Fischbach, Fighting, Fist Fights, Gen or Pre-Slash, Grumpy Mark Fischbach, Handler Amy Nelson, Krymménos, M/M, NO DEATH, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Probie Ethan Nestor, Shippy Gen, Strangers to Friends, Sweetheart Ethan Nestor, Weapons, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, light Violence, possible series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 18:43:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29780490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “Allow me to formally introduce you,” Amy gestured to the man at her side, his black tactical gear a stark contrast to the summer blouse and smart slacks that she wore. “Agent Dark, this is Agent Darling. Newest active field agent and your new partner.”
Relationships: Mark Fischbach & Ethan Nestor, Mark Fischbach/Ethan Nestor
Comments: 5
Kudos: 75
Collections: Anonymous





	Darling

**Author's Note:**

> As always this work is intended creatively and is not an accurate reflection of nor intended in any disrespect towards the persons mentioned; their family; their friends; their representatives or their significant others. Please do not send this work to any of the aforementioned persons.
> 
> I had quite a fun dream last night that inspired this spy AU drabble. I didn't have the spoons to turn it into the full, multi-chapter, plot-heavy work I initially had in mind but here's an appetizer of my thoughts. I'm a sucker for a grizzled, battle-hardened Mark and a fresh faced, newbie Ethan who still thinks the world of field agency is like it is in the movies.  
> -JJH

There was someone inside his house.

He woke up with the fact at the forefront of his mind, the creeping unease of watched prey. 

Someone had been watching him sleep.

His fingers closed around the gun beneath his pillow and he shifted, rolling soundlessly to his feet. He’d chosen silk sheets for stealth as much as comfort and the thin cotton socks he wore stopped his feet from making any noise against the polished wood floor of his bedroom. 

He was eight steps into the hall when a shadow in the bathroom doorway breathed. The air shifted as it rushed him and only years of finely tuning his reflexes afforded him enough opportunity to twist, using his shoulder to turn his assailant’s own momentum against him.

His shoulder met the attacker’s chest hard and he heaved, hauling the figure - a man, by the weight and frame - over the staircase railing. Where he’d expected to hear a body tumble clumsily downwards his opponent landed lightly on his feet, twisting last minute like a cat. 

“This shit always happens on a Monday,” Mark complained gruffly to the building at large, levelling his gun. His opponent tucked tail and ran, vaulting the staircase and disappearing into the main lower hallway. Element of surprise ruined, Mark slipped down after him.

He knew this game of cat and mouse. But he had an advantage - this was his home turf. His playground.

He knew which floorboards creaked and which picture frames were hiding a safety box full of drugged darts. He knew which shadows fell where when the moon was at a certain point and which pair of boots placed by the front door held an extra clip for the .9mm in his hands.

He knew that added, tangible darkness behind the kitchen island didn’t belong. 

He levelled his gun to fire but the intruder clearly had eyes on him back, because the shadow shifted and Mark barely had time to dodge the small, angled knife that came flying through the air at his shoulder. He was rushed again, forced to abandon any opportunity of planned aim for engaging in close-quarter combat. 

And the man was _fast_.

In the half-light of the moon Mark’s attacker was slender, matching him in height but lacking the brute strength Mark packed. As if by choice the light never seemed to fall on his face, rendering him this innominate threat. 

What this anonymous form lacked in size he made up for in agility. When Mark threw what would’ve been a devastating uppercut the man launched himself backwards, springing off his hands to land light on his toes, half-crouched and ready to keep going. 

Bulky muscle often made for a lesser ability to endure, Mark knew. The gazelle could survive if only it could outlast the lion, and he wondered if that was the play here. Because when the man had an open line to his throat he went low instead, landing a hit right to the crease of Mark’s hip where it ached against the bone but did little to hinder the brutal side-kick he landed to an exposed thigh in retaliation. 

The man threw a punch and Mark closed in, snagging that outstretched arm to sweep the man over his shoulder, throwing him against the floor where he fell with a soft grunt, air forced from his lungs. A swift kick to the inner thigh almost had Mark following him down, forced to step back in order to keep his balance, affording his opponent a moment to roll back to his feet. 

Fucking Mondays. 

He let the other man close in this time, letting himself be forced backwards until he was in range to snag the skinning knife he kept taped beneath the revolving spice rack. It felt cold and balanced in his palm, a weight that was familiar but had yet to ever feel welcoming. 

It was a dreary sort of comfort - a weapon in hand. 

The grapple resumed.

They were fully inside the kitchen now, his socked feet quiet on the tile and his opponent’s combat boots filling the air between them with heavy thuds. Close-quarter had become almost intimate now, both of them closing in until Mark could smell the mint on the other man’s breath.

It was then that a sliver of moonlight graced him with his first real glimpse of who’s ribs his knuckles met with bruising force.

A pale eye flickered in pain, irises that seemed caught somewhere between blue and hazel seemingly dominating the tiny pinpricks of his pupils. And then the man was twisting and going for his throat and all thoughts of eyes were abandoned. 

Mark’s throat was his Achilles’ Heel. It had animalistic reflex taking over, his teeth sinking into soft flesh through a thin layer of tactical blend before his head crunched into a vulnerable nose, eliciting a high yelp of pain. 

A sharp blade nicked his shoulder and he swerved away from it, panting as he re-oriented himself within the fight. They were both armed with a blade now, Mark at a disadvantage in his loose tee and boxers but by no means outmatched yet. His opponent was also starting to exert himself, flighty agility only giving him so many cards to play.

He wondered what a sight they made - two shadow forms, dancing like liquid lethality in the darkness of his spacious, empty house. Ghosts, locked in a struggle of life and death.

Another bite of pain flared across his lower stomach and he shook himself from his philosophical musings, baring his teeth as he sank low and growled. 

He’d been pulling his punches until now - in a way. Feeling out his opponent with an innate form of curiosity. A cat batting at a yarn ball. 

It was high time his claws came out.

He ducked a straight punch and shifted, slipping into the inviting space it left to drive his elbow into the man’s ribs with brutal efficiency, aiming for the space he knew he’d hit before. The man let out a winded sound, folding over slightly. Mark didn’t give him the chance to collect himself, gripping a fistful of soft, short hair. 

What? Hair pulling wasn’t just a girl thing.

They were a tangle of limbs now, momentum traded for carefully chosen shots. In their grappling the other man managed to slip behind him, long legs wrapping around him and an arm sliding around his throat, blocked only by Mark’s arm. 

That instinctual red mist of fear kicked in and when Mark blinked it away he’d driven his knife into the man’s flank, the blade twisting slightly as he let it go. 

Pain bloomed just beneath his collarbone, flesh tugging around a blade, a stab traded for a stab. He grunted and threw himself back, crushing the man between himself and the surprisingly sturdy cabinets. The plates inside rattled, a jarringly loud noise compared the relatively muted sound of their scuffling. 

His opponent let him go and Mark fell away, hissing as his shoulder burned. He was bleeding in more places that he wanted to be, the coppery scent acrid and unwelcome in his nose. 

The intruder was leaning back where he’d dropped, shakily pulling the knife from his hip with an almost inaudible whimper. Mark didn’t give reprieve, charging forwards to slam into him again, brutalizing the man’s remaining breath before he swept low, curling an arm around one of those lean thighs and the other around his torso. 

Almost surprisingly the man recovered, clinging to him and curling up as Mark slammed him down atop the marble kitchen island. 

The main room light flicked on as they panted into each other’s space, breaking the spell of anonymity and darkness. 

Someone clapped, slow and methodical. 

The man had a knife at Mark’s throat. 

Mark had a knife at his, too.

“Well done, Darling.”

“I thought we didn’t do pet names anymore,” Mark responded gruffly, not taking his eyes off the figure pinned beneath him, legs wrapped tight around his waist, knee digging into the raw gash there.

The man beneath him looked almost young in the golden lamp light, void of the years that war and death carved into your face and eyes. He was pale but not sickly so, lips stained slick copper as he breathed heavily, blood trickling from his broken noes. 

There was fire in his eyes as he stared back at Mark, defiant and spit-fire, a soft sound like a kitten growl ripping free as he pressed the knife tighter against Mark’s throat. It retaliation he dug his thumb cruelly into the bruised ribs he’d landed not one, but five hits to.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” the elegant blonde siting in his favourite chair remarked, rising to her feet slowly. “Agent Darling, you may stand down.”

Beneath him the man let out a slow exhale, not looking away as he slowly withdrew the knife, fingers uncurling and spreading in a sign of submission, letting the blade roll off his open palm and onto the marble with a quiet clatter. Mark afforded him no such act for several more moments, blinking through a droplet of blood that trickled down over his brow before he heaved himself away. 

‘Darling’s’ legs fell open to let him go, hands leaving smears of blood as he pushed himself up, both of them breathing raggedly as Mark turned his attention to Handler A.

Or, as he knew her, Amy. 

“I thought I took my key back when you called off the engagement,” he grumbled, turning away from them to run the cold faucet, swiping a dish cloth to wipe the blood from his eyes. 

“You did,” Amy replied, as well they both knew. Mark turned and leaned back against the counter, watching as Agent Darling slipped off the island to stand next to her, dabbing gingerly at his nose with a wince. 

“Allow me to formally introduce you,” Amy gestured to the man at her side, his black tactical gear a stark contrast to the summer blouse and smart slacks that she wore. “Agent Dark, this is Agent Darling. Newest active field agent and your new partner.”

“You know I’m out,” he reminded her, peeling down his shirt to glimpse the sluggishly bleeding wound there. A relatively minor stabbing, all things considered. He glanced up, gaze finding the slick patch that glistened at Agent Darling’s hip. It filled him with a nasty, sick kind of satisfaction. 

“And you’re smart enough to know that nobody in this life ever truly gets out,” she shot back, though not unkindly. 

“Take a moment to acquaint yourselves. Agent Dark, I expect to see you at ten sharp for a de-briefing.” She lingered for a moment, then crossed the space between them, stiletto heels clacking on the blood-slick tile. The kiss she pressed to his cheek was gentle.

“It’s good to see you again, Agent Dark,” she whispered, squeezing his bicep before she turned. 

She left through the front door, and then there were two. 

“Unless you’re going to start mopping, you can leave,” Mark grunted, pulling his shirt over his head and grinding his teeth through the pain. To give credit to the kid - he could hand out a battering. Mark’s torso was already turning a warning shade of green-purple, soon to be joined by blues and blacks. 

Two jagged slices across his lower stomach and hip oozed blood and another trail dripped from his upper chest, the blood itching as it journeyed downwards. As he dragged the cloth over his forearms he looked up to find the man still there, watching him with almost uncomfortable interest. 

“People look at me like that, usually means they want to get laid.” The words succeeded in breaking the stare, the man’s ruddy cheeks darkening further as he jerked his gaze away and down. 

“Handler A said-”

“Kiss too much ass, kid, and you’ll find yourself scrubbing shit from between your teeth,” Mark cut him off, kicking open a lower cabinet to reach for the medical kit hidden behind the fruit blender he had yet to ever use. “You already know about me, and anything I need to know about you will be in the black dossier she hands me the moment I step into her office tomorrow.”

He’d need stitches - and not an insignificant amount of them, and he resigned himself to the fact that he wouldn’t be getting to sleep against before sunrise. 

“What kind of a codename is Darling, anyway?” he asked, when it became clear the other man had no intention of leaving. 

“It’s...Hereditary.”

“ _Fascinating_ ,” he drawled dryly, reaching for the iodine. “Now patch yourself up, and leave.”

He raised a warning brow when the man opened his mouth to argue, settling into the unfortunately familiar routine of fixing himself up when the other agent finally relented and padded cautiously closer. 

The thin bullet vest was peeled off and so was the torn shirt beneath it. Mark got to see the gruesome result of his handiwork - the dark bruising blooming like a flower across the man’s ribs and the jagged knife wound at his hip, slanted off the one and in a place that would tug and sting no matter how he moved. 

_Good_ , Mark thought grimly, swabbing at his shoulder. _An eye for an eye._

Telling himself that his brutality made him feel good distracted him from somewhat from the realisation that Agent Darling’s body was otherwise largely bare. Where Mark was riddled with old scars Agent Darling’s torso was mostly a blank canvas. 

It meant he was fresh. Green. A colt next to a tried and true warhorse. 

It made Mark think grimly of all the horrors the kid had yet to come to meet. Of how he’d either die nameless and secret somewhere or live long enough to reach the point where he couldn’t trail his fingertips over an inch of his own flesh without meeting a scar.

They cleaned themselves up in silence.

The kid’s stitches were shaky and uneven but Mark didn’t offer help and Agent Darling didn’t ask for it, patching the worst of his wounds before re-dressing. As Mark sprayed the kitchen island down with Clorox his uninvited guest re-collected his weapons and lingered in the hallway by the door. 

“This wasn’t-” he began haltingly, before steeling himself. “She ordered me to. Attack you, I mean. I wouldn’t have-- I wasn’t aiming to kill you. She just told me to fight, and to win.”

“I know,” Mark grumbled, throwing his ruined shirt in the trash. That was how it usually went, in this life. You met everyone down the barrel of a gun or at the sharp end of a knife. Even your partners.

Agent Darling still lingered. 

“Did she-- were you-”

_ Did you know I was coming? Were your orders the same? _

_ Would you have killed me? _

He dragged his gaze up, fixing it unerringly on Agent Darling’s. Whatever the other Agent saw in his eyes was answer enough and the man turned away, slipping out of the front door and into the night. 

Mark ground his teeth and set to scrubbing.

* * *

Agent Darling was twenty-three and something of Amy’s new puppy. She’d more or less adopted him straight out of the Academy, a true Little Orphan tale. It wasn’t wholly dissimilar to their own meeting story, and Mark wondered idly if Agent Darling would find himself left at the altar next, too. 

Well. That wasn’t _quite_ accurate. He and Amy had never actually made it to the altar. He’d gotten as far as proposing before she’d pulled a Ghost Protocol on him, throwing him to the wolves as a double agent because she knew he’d expose the dirty cards at the top of the stack. 

He couldn’t quite bring himself to forgive her fully for the eleven months he’d spent on the run and she’d never asked him to. He’d worked four more missions after that before slipping quietly off to a two-bedroom house on the outskirts of L.A, playing pretend at being a regular old Joe. 

He was the grizzled veteran to Agent Darling’s fresh enthusiasm. 

He was a set of training wheels, no matter how sweetly Handler A tried to coat it. 

“I was supposed to dig a herb garden this summer,” he grumbled as he shoved open the door to his house, juggling Darling’s weight. 

Handler A had pulled him back in to dismantle the Government, of all things. A host of dirty CIA operatives, a data smuggling conspiracy and a high profile list of covertly authorised illegal targets. 

In for a penny, he supposed. He’d known whatever she was pulling him back for had to be big, he just hadn’t expected it to be this big. 

“Ow,” Darling uttered thickly as his head bounced off the doorframe. 

“Yeah, well. You wanna get in unscathed? Stand on your own two feet,” Mark huffed at him, kicking the door shut and heading for the kitchen. Somehow and despite the very high grade medical facility back at HQ, his kitchen had become their preferred place to patch up and gripe about the toils of the day. 

“That’s unfair,” Darling pointed out as Mark dumped him into one of the stool seats, running the faucet. “I’ve been _shot_. You try standing up when you’ve been _shot_.”

“I’ve been shot a lot more than you have,” Mark pointed out, digging out the medical kit. At this rate he’d have to resupply again soon, and the women at his local pharmacy were starting to look at him suspiciously. 

“That’s because you’re old,” Darling gurgled, snorting a wet laugh at his own insult as Mark peeled away the layers of sodden fabric. The snickering became a hiss of pain as Mark began to clean the wound. The bullet had wedged against his rib, which was a small mercy. Taking it out would hurt, but scraping a rib was better than a punctured lung.

“Drink this, take this, bite this. Then shut up.” Mark handed him a bottle, a morphine tablet and a leather wallet in succession. Agent Darling complied, cringing through the alcohol and slumping back as he sterilized the forceps.

When the bullet was a bloody lump on the kitchen island and Agent Darling had been wiped down and stitched up to the best of Mark’s abilities, he dragged the half-unconscious agent to the main room, dumping him unceremoniously into a chair and draping a ratty blanket over his shoulders. 

He’d just turned away when Agent Darling shifted. 

“Ethan,” came the breathy voice, slightly slurred. He stopped mid-step and turned, brow arching. Agent Darling was watching him through hazy, half-lidded eyes. “My name. It’s Ethan. ‘Darling’ is part of my last name.”

“You shouldn’t have told me that,” Mark noted quietly, lips pursed. Field agents went by code names. It was one of the rules - it was harder to track people if you didn’t know their names. Harder to gather intel on them. It was unusual enough that Darling’s codename was so close to the truth.

“You’re not going to kill me,” Dar- Ethan dismissed.

“No?”

“No. You didn’t kill me that night. And you came back for me today. You _like_ me.” Ethan was smiling, hazy and fast losing the battle against consciousness. 

“You’re high. And missing a lot of blood. I went back for you because it’s the job.”

Except...It wasn’t, really. As a general rule everyone coming back alive was the preferred outcome, but when it came down to it, if leaving someone behind to die decided the success of the mission, the people you were out there with would walk away without looking back. 

Their true loyalty was to the country and her people. To the greater good. Whatever the Hell that was supposed to be. 

By the time he’d cleaned up and changed and checked the surveillance and security systems, Ethan was fast asleep. Mark approached quietly, tucking the blanket up under his chin and using his thumb to brush away some dried, flaking blood from his temple. 

He leaned down slowly. 

“Mark,” he whispered into Ethan’s ear. “My name is Mark.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoy my writing and have something you'd like to entrust me to write, please don't hesitate to [send me prompt.](https://krymmenosprompts.tumblr.com/)  
> -JJH


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